


The Bible's VPL:  a tale of acceptance, tennis and misplaced jealousy

by Pixxit



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-05
Updated: 2007-07-05
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixxit/pseuds/Pixxit
Summary: There's a new kid in town – and he wants to play for Shitenhouji.





	The Bible's VPL:  a tale of acceptance, tennis and misplaced jealousy

 

The first time Shiraishi noticed the tall, slouching interloper hanging out near the south gate of the tennis courts, he glanced at Osamu for any hint of acknowledgment or recognition. That Osamu was stretched out on the bench with his hat covering his face should have been an assurance that the newcomer’s presence was nothing he needed to be concerned about, but since the position that Osamu currently took was – essentially - his natural state of being, Shiraishi couldn’t quite dismiss it.

He looked away, preoccupied and uneasy for no real reason at all, and looked up, startled, when Kenya approached.

“Is everyone here?” he asked, unzipping his bag and shaking it free of his racket. Kenya nodded, glancing once over his shoulder and tapping his racket against the toe of one shoe.

“Yeah,” Kenya answered. “Coach is asleep, though.”

Shiraishi didn’t smile and when he met Kenya’s gaze, they were silent for a moment. Kenya looked away first, and Shiraishi followed suit – such was their habit, though Shiraishi couldn’t have said why.

When he looked back at the gate, the boy was gone.

+++

Three days passed before Shiraishi noticed him again and – this time – it was obvious that the boy wasn’t simply hanging out or killing time. Fingers threaded through wire, leaning in, intent – he was watching Shiraishi.

He watched him practice, watched him teach, watched him survey the team that Shiraishi _knew_ he would lead to victory next year. And through it all – as though he knew Shiraishi and never questioned his awareness – he kept his silence. With that faint, knowing smile that he didn’t bother to hide, the new kid pushed buttons and strained boundaries and _pissed Shiraishi off_ without ever saying a word.

No one, it seemed, noticed Shiraishi’s preoccupation for his game – as always – was faultless. Only Kenya, whose attentiveness to even the most subtle shift in Shiraishi’s moods was absolute, seemed to recognize the change in him and he dealt with it to the best of his ability: he moved directly into Shiraishi’s focus and got serious.

He could not beat Shiraishi in a true match and he knew it, but that knowledge didn’t deter him when it came to effectively distracting his teammate. The truth was that Kenya didn’t particularly _need_ to beat him. But that was just one more thing that went unspoken between them.

All that mattered was that – by testing his endurance – Kenya was almost able to make Shiraishi forget the unwelcome presence just outside the courts.

+++

Almost a week to the day that Shiraishi had first become aware of his silent, singular audience, his questions were answered.

“Eh,” Osamu grunted, snapping his fingers at Shiraishi and waving him over. “C’mere, Kura.”

Shiraishi bristled, back straight and clearly irritated when he joined Osamu near the bench. “What is it?” he asked, short and disrespectful and not particularly concerned. If Osamu was going to call him ‘Kura’ in front of the others, then he had no qualms in being a dick about it.

Standing slowly, lazily, Osamu scratched his head through the ratty straw hat he wore and glanced around the courts. “Gonna need you tomorra,” he said, as though he were typically some shining paragon of supervisory brilliance and only today would Shiraishi be required to take the lead.

When Shiraishi didn’t answer, merely waited for the directive, Osamu laughed and clapped him on the back. “Look at ya. If you was a cat, yer ears’d be all slicked back, wouldn’t they?”

Shiraishi’s jaw clenched. “No.”

Osamu laughed again and adjusted his hat, low over his eyes. “Gotta new kid innerested in tryin’ out. Make nice, yeah? Show him the ropes.”

“The ropes?” Shiraishi began, spluttering indignantly. “Where are _you_ going?”

Slipping his hands into his pockets, Osamu rocked back on his flip-flops and yawned. “I got somethin’ I gotta do. _You’re_ the captain, after all.”

Gaping in disbelief, though he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, Shiraishi glared at his coach. “So?”

Osamu smiled, barely paying attention to Shiraishi when he waggled his fingers in a little half-wave at the cute dark-haired kid picking up balls near the fence. “So?” he repeated. “So, _captain_.”

Strolling away then, gait easy and loose, Shiraishi glanced at the first year who had somehow managed to garner Osamu’s attention. His cheeks were pink and he snuck a glance at Kenya before resuming his task. He didn’t notice Shiraishi.

+++

With Osamu out of town for a couple of days, Shiraishi took the opportunity to schedule practice for first thing in the morning instead of right after school. He hated being made to wait through an entire day of classes before he could pick up his racket and with his lazy bum of a coach out of the way, Shiraishi could impose as many early-morning practices as he liked.

Until Osamu returned, in any event.

It was early, the sun had only barely risen, and Shiraishi was just winding down the last of his twenty laps when he noticed _him_ again.

Slowing to a halt some eight or nine feet away, Shiraishi realized that this was the closest he’d been to the newcomer since he’d first noticed him. He was tall, rangy, with shaggy hair and baggy clothes and – with the sun behind him as it was – he appeared backlit and imposing, somehow. And that annoyed Shiraishi.

“Oi,” he said, hands in his pockets and slouching and entirely too reminiscent of Osamu, and Shiraishi wiped his forehead with his wristband.

“Practice hasn’t started, yet,” he said, knowing – as he had before – that this boy would be the ‘new kid’ that Osamu had been referring to.

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head and smiling at Shiraishi. “Then why are you here?”

“I’m the captain,” Shiraishi told him, brushing past him to head inside the courts. “That’s why.”

The boy followed – in his geta and weirdo, wooden necklace – without waiting for an invitation. Shiraishi walked ahead of him, steadfastly ignoring him, feeling the boy in his shadow and unable to ascertain exactly why his presence had Shiraishi so on edge.

“Good,” the boy answered. “You’re the one I need, then.”

The accent named him when Shiraishi would not otherwise have been able. This was the boy all the girls had been giggling and whispering about - the transfer student from Kyuushuu. He turned, something in the tone of this newcomer’s voice sounding suspiciously like a challenge. “Is that right?”

The boy smiled and though it was friendly enough, Shiraishi detected something else behind it – something self-satisfied and confident and yes, challenging. “Yep.”

He held out his hand then – surprising Shiraishi. “Chitose Senri. I wanna play.”

Shiraishi reached for him, tentative but too curious to do anything else, and startled when Chitose gripped his forearm and not merely his hand. He followed suit, recognized the boy’s strength and complete lack of arrogance.

“So,” Chitose said. “You gonna give me a shot, Buchou?”

Shiraishi didn’t smile, but neither did he frown.

+++

Chitose Senri was, as it turned out, as much of a morning person as Shiraishi was. It was that, or – as far as Kenya could determine – he was twice as stubborn. For the past two days, he’d arrived at the court to find Chitose and Shiraishi sweating and panting and so wrapped up in their rally that Kenya had taken it upon himself to lead exercises merely in the interests of maintaining some modicum of cool. Seeing Shiraishi focus so completely on someone he didn’t even know - when Kenya spent more than a reasonable amount of time trying to garner that attention for himself – made Kenya grind his teeth and take deep, calming, entirely unsuccessful breaths. He wasn’t jealous – Oshitari Kenya didn’t get jealous. He was simply insulted for being made to feel superfluous and clearly not as important as Chitose.

Yuuji and Koharu had spent much of the morning making Gin run around the court in the interests of furthering his ‘stamina’ between sneaking glances at the new guy.

“You know what they say about those Kyuushuu boys,” Koharu leered, nudging Gin and ignoring the sharp look Yuuji sent him.

Gin’s wry expression had been indication enough that not only did he not know, but that he could happily go his entire life without ever knowing. Zaizen, however, was clearly not so inclined.

“What do they say, Konjiki-senpai?”

Koharu grinned and – when he opened his mouth to speak – Kenya called out, impulsively, “Zaizen!”

His senpai and Kyuushuu conveniently forgotten, Zaizen perked up, bending to scoop up his racket on his way to Kenya’s side. “Yes, senpai?”

Zaizen, for all that he could be a mouthy, arrogant little shit under the right circumstances, usually addressed Kenya respectfully and always seemed eager to offer him assistance whenever he asked. Which, admittedly, wasn’t that often.

“Warm up with me?” he asked, pretending not to notice the way Zaizen’s dark eyes lit up.

“Of course, senpai!”

Scampering to the far side of the court – where he could display his considerable genius to Kenya in relative peace – Zaizen’s stomach turned when Koharu flashed him the victory sign. He knew what that pervert was thinking. _Gross_.

Kenya didn’t notice. Two courts over, Chitose had already won three sets.

+++

That afternoon, when Shiraishi was nowhere to be seen and hadn’t managed so much as a ‘Hey Kenya, what’s up?’ in almost two days, Kenya took the long way around the school, behind the courts, with the intention of making a much-needed phone call.

Yuushi was number one on Kenya’s speed dial list, though he would never have told him so, and he walked along, muttering to himself and kicking clumps of grass that had the unmitigated audacity to be in his way.

When Yuushi answered, drawling and breathy and only serving to irritate Kenya further, it was all he could do not to snarl at him in answer.

“Are you busy?” he asked, voice clipped and hard and he gripped the phone in irritation when Yuushi’s soft laughter reached his ear.

“Never too busy for you, Kenya. Trouble in paradise? You sound tense.”

Seeing no need to trifle with niceties that Yuushi would recognize instantly as less than sincere, Kenya got right to the point. “I’m going to lose my fucking mind. Do you hear me, Yuushi? My…”

“Yes, yes, I hear you. Your fucking mind.”

Pausing long enough to kick the fence surrounding the tennis court, Kenya growled his annoyance and continued. “How can anybody be so self-absorbed? I mean, I know it’s easy to be preoccupied but he’s like totally oblivious. He doesn’t even know that Koharu told the whole team that he can see Kura’s underwear through his shorts. ”

“The Bible has VPL?” Yuushi asked absently, clearly amused. “How perfectly interesting.”

At Kenya’s low sound of impatience, Yuushi went on. There was nothing better than poking at Kenya when he was annoyed. “Are you having a tantrum, Kenya? If anyone sees you, they’ll think you’ve lost what mind you have left.”

“You’re not helping,” he said. “And I don’t think it’s too much to ask to…”

He trailed off, catching sight of Osamu making his way over – the only person on the courts at all. Kenya scowled. Didn’t it just figure? “ _Damn_. I gotta go, I’ll call you back.”

“Of course. I’ll be waiting. Pining, sitting by the phone and daydreaming about your captain’s pretty panties…”

Kenya hung up, shoving his phone back into his pocket and smoothing his hair back. He knew his face was probably red and his hair was sticking up and he took a deep breath to get his temper under control again.

Strolling idly toward him, scratching his belly beneath the thin, faded shirt he wore, Osamu grunted in Kenya’s general direction and waved him over. “’ey, Kenya-kun. C’mere.”

Kenya went, hefting his backpack up onto his shoulder and trying not to scowl.

Tipping up his hat and grumbling when the sun hit his bloodshot eyes, Osamu sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Where’s everybody?”

Glancing around at the empty tennis courts, Kenya rubbed the back of his neck and cursed Shiraishi for neglecting to inform Osamu of the change in schedule. Did he have to babysit everybody? “Uh…Shiraishi is scheduling morning practices until after finals.”

Osamu nodded slowly, as if this made perfect sense to him. “Mm, I see. And then what?”

Kenya blinked. He had absolutely no idea what Shiraishi’s plans were, as he’d not seen fit to share any of them with _him_ , but he knew Shiraishi well and could hazard a reasonable guess. “Well, and then we’ll shift to morning and afternoon practices.”

“Oh,” Osamu said. “Well, I prolly won’t make them early ones.”

Kenya nodded – he could have guessed as much. “Yeah, yeah. Sure thing.”

Osamu stood, then, apparently feeling no desire to grab a nap at school if tennis practice was cancelled. Likely he would prefer to nap in the comfort of his own home if he weren’t required to be at the courts in the afternoon. “You can tell Kura-kun that I’ll see ‘im after finals, yeah?”

Kenya nodded, impatient and dismissive. “All right,” Kenya agreed, glad – and not for the first time – that he wasn’t captain.

Osamu nudged him, then. “Hn. Oshitari-kun. Whattya think ‘bout that Zaizen kid?”

“Uh…Zaizen…?”

Osamu nodded. “Yep, Zaizen. Kid’s like a little pup right now, but don’t let ‘im fool ya, Kenya-kun.”

Kenya felt his face go hot and that was even more embarrassing than what he felt certain Osamu was about to say. “Er, he has…potential.”

“Yep. Potential. Stick with him, Kenya-kun. There’s lots ya can teach a pup like that.”

“Teach, Sensei?”

“Yep,” Osamu said, walking on ahead and waving to Kenya without looking back. “Tennis, boy. _Tennis_.”

+++

“Tennis,” Shiraishi said, relieving Chitose of the soy sauce to saturate his own noodles.

Chitose watched, bemused. They were sweaty and tired and nowhere near friends and it had been ages since Chitose had felt so exhilarated. “And that’s all that matters to you? Tennis?”

Shiraishi looked up. “Are you any different?”

Chitose shrugged; Shiraishi couldn’t goad him into losing his cool. He hadn’t learned that yet, but he would. Eventually. “I didn’t used to be.” He hesitated, thinking of his past, of himself, of Kippei, and then he continued. “I used to be like you, actually.”

Winding noodles around his chopsticks, Shiraishi waited for Chitose to continue. When he didn’t seem eager to elaborate, Shiraishi prompted him again. “What changed?”

Chewing slowly, Chitose glanced around casually, turning his head to take in the sight of Shiraishi with his left eye. “Eh, you know, Kura-kun. _Life_.”

Torn between irritation at Chitose’s familiarity and a real desire to know his story, Shiraishi stole a piece of shrimp from Chitose’s bowl. Even knowing so little of him as he did, he somehow suspected that such an action would only serve to put Chitose at his ease. If the little half-smile on Chitose’s face was anything to go by, Shiraishi had been right. “That’s pretty vague, Chitose-kun,” he said around a bite of shrimp.

“What? You saying I have to tell you my life story if I want to make the team?”

Shiraishi blushed, irritated and not embarrassed – as though he were such a person, as though he’d turn someone like Chitose Senri away. “Don’t be stupid.”

Chitose grinned then, maddening and still so relaxed. “Does that mean I made the team?”

Shiraishi frowned and tucked into his noodles. No humility. Chitose Senri had _no humility_. But when he glanced up at him again, Shiraishi could admit to himself it wouldn’t have been very fitting if he had.

“I want you to play Kenya on Monday. You haven’t had the chance, yet,” he said, effectively evading the question even as they both knew the answer.

“You trust him,” Chitose said, slurping his noodles and earning Shiraishi’s scowl.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, chopsticks clicking against the bottom of his bowl.

“If he doesn’t like me, you’ll turn me down.”

“Don’t be…”

 _Stupid_ , he’d been about to say again. ‘ _Don’t be stupid_.’

Chitose sat across from him, arms resting on the table, that typical, faint smile hiding any real expression he might have. Shiraishi pushed his bowl away, laid his chopsticks aside. Chitose didn’t know Kenya, didn’t know what they were about and what tennis meant to them. According to Kenya – though he hadn’t really known what he’d meant by it at the time – Shitenhouji wasn’t Hyoutei.

Instead, he said, “You busy tonight?”

Chitose shrugged. “Not really. Why? You want ‘nother match?”

Shiraishi shook his head, glanced at his watch. “Nope. Let’s do something else.”

Clearly taken aback, Chitose stood when Shiraishi did, picking up their trays when Shiraishi shouldered his bag. “Like what?”

The ‘and why?’ went unsaid.

“Something different,” Shiraishi said and all he could think about was that Shitenhouji wasn’t Hyoutei. Somehow, he thought he might understand what that meant and why it made him feel the way he did.

+++

It was full dark when they reached their destination and if Chitose had any reservations about allowing Shiraishi to talk him into donning a yukata and accompanying him to a carnival full of kids and fawning couples, he didn’t let on.

Shiraishi shot him a look over the fluffy cone of cotton candy he held as though daring him to say anything derogatory. “You don’t like carnivals?” he asked, tucking the Keroppi puppet he’d won into his obi.

Pulling a bit of fluff away from the cone, Chitose laughed. “I like ‘em fine,” he said, glancing at the toy that Shiraishi had beat out an eight-year-old at the water-gun booth to obtain. “Not as much as you, apparently.”

Shiraishi snorted. “Carnivals are fun,” he proclaimed, already on the lookout for another game to play.

Chitose followed, shaking his head and twirling his necklace. “Tennis and carnivals. You’re a strange bird, Kura-kun.”

Affronted, and about to tell Chitose exactly where he could stuff it, Shiraishi was interrupted by a familiar voice. A familiar voice that carried quite well, in fact.

“Senpai!”

Trainers slapping against concrete echoed in the narrow alley and when Shiraishi looked around, Chitose stole another bite of cotton candy.

Heading their way was Zaizen – dressed like he’d just left the arcade, pockets turned out as though he’d dug deep for all the change he could find – and, following just behind, was Kenya.

“Senpai, you’re all dressed up, what gives?”

Hooking an arm around Zaizen’s head, Kenya covered his eyes and jerked him backward. “Ignore him, he’s high on black sugar.”

Zaizen struggled, elbowing Kenya though it was fairly obvious to Chitose that he had no real interest in getting free. When Kenya released him, he stumbled backward and bumped into Hitouji.

“Gotta beat ‘em off with a stick, na, Yuuji?” Koharu snickered.

Hitouji rolled his eyes and tried to ruffle Zaizen’s hair. “You wish.”

Zaizen edged away, openly cringing and shifting to Kenya’s far left – away from Hitouji and Konjiki.

“We tried calling you,” Kenya began, reticent and a little uncertain. “To see if you wanted to go, I mean.”

Shiraishi shrugged. “It’s cool. It was a spur of the moment thing, anyway.” He glanced from Kenya to Chitose. “You guys know Chitose, right?”

Kenya lifted his chin in casual greeting. “We haven’t been formally introduced. It’s nice to meet you.”

Chitose nodded in return. “And you.”

Kenya wondered if being so tall made bowing an impossibility. But he didn’t say it aloud.

There was a slight pause, during which time Koharu sidled up just a bit closer to Chitose - Yuuji followed, hand tight in Koharu’s back pocket – and then Shiraishi spoke again.

“He’s going to play for Shitenhouji.”

Chitose didn’t respond and it was at Kenya that he continued to look.

“Starting Monday,” he added.

Finally, Kenya nodded and held his fist out to Chitose. “It will be good to have you. Shishigaku’s loss will be our gain.”

Chitose grinned, bumping Kenya’s fist with his own and Zaizen nudged Kenya again.

“Shoot some hoops with me,” he said, already turning away in the hopes that Kenya would follow. With a quick nod at Shiraishi and Chitose, he did.

“Why?” he called out to Zaizen’s retreating form, following behind him with long, confident strides. “You’ll just lose again.”

Yuuji caught sight of the haunted house and Koharu winked at Chitose before allowing his partner to drag him away. “Catch you later, wingboy.”

Only a few feet away, Shiraishi could hear Koharu giggling when Yuuji slapped his shoulders and demanded to know if Koharu was cheating on him.

Shaking his head when they were gone, Shiraishi tossed the bare, paper cone into a nearby trashcan. “Still want to play with us?”

Chitose’s snerk was barely audible over the crowd of children nearby. “It’ll take a lot more than that to put me off,” he warned, catching sight of Zaizen and Kenya near the basketball games. Though he imagined that he would come to like Shiraishi’s team well enough going forward, he wasn’t in the mood for a group tonight.

“Wanna ride the ferris wheel?” he asked.

Shiraishi gave him a dubious look, remembering the strawberry milk sausages and cotton candy he’d allowed Chitose to talk him into in the past hour. ‘ _What? Like you eat this stuff every day?’_

“I’ll probably barf, no thanks to you.”

Chitose shrugged. “I thought that was the idea,” he said.

Unable to suppress his amusement, Shiraishi laughed and shoved at Chitose’s arm. “Idiot. Come on, then. I’m game.”

Chitose ran a hand through his hair, tipped his face up to the evening breeze and picked up his pace to beat Shiraishi to the line. “Hey, Shiraishi,” he called back when he passed him.

Shiraishi only rose to the challenge, jogging along behind him, certain that he’d catch up before they reached the ride. “What? You gonna chicken out already?”

Chitose laughed – a real laugh and it lifted Shiraishi’s spirits. “Hell, no.”

He turned, jogging backward with his hair brushing his cheeks and his eyes alight with laughter. “You got a panty line going, there.”

Shiraishi stopped, jaw dropping in surprise and horror as he felt along his rear for any tell-tale ridges of fabric.

“Chitose! You…you…”

 _Bastard_ , he wanted to say. _Chitose, you smug bastard._

But he didn’t. He smoothed the back of his yukata down and tightened his obi. And then he ran after Chitose.


End file.
